


More violet than white (he's softer than he looks)

by Anonymous



Category: Real Person Fiction, UNIQ (Band), Wang Yibo - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Body Dysphoria, Canon Compliant, Eating Disorders, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Intrusive Thoughts, Platonic Affection, Probable happy ending?, Sad Wang Yibo, Slight gender dysphoria, group bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:41:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25097041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: -and it shouldn’t matter, it really shouldn’t because Wenhan is reckless like that, because they say a lot of stupid shit to each other, and they’re brothers at the end of the day and heknowsit was just a knee jerk reaction but—it does.Jabs at something sharp inside of him and stays there, he feels his heart sink a little.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Yibo

They were finally debuting…. _Fuck_. Yibo can't believe it, I mean he can, but it still feels unreal—after all it's something he's dreamt of since he got here, five long years ago. He’s still waiting for Zixuan ge to wake him up. 

It doesn’t happen.

They practice day and night and more than they ever have before. They get shown concepts and styles and measured, probed and scrutinized to see which concept suits them best, which persona they can drape upon themselves like a well-fitted coat.

They call him pretty, say that he can be prettier if they just..tried something more. His hair has always been blonde, he liked it blonde, reminded him of his idols and their idols before them, an era of crazy music and crazier hair.

They dye it a lot lighter, they say it’s platinum now. Yibo remembers that platinum is a metal and wistfully thinks of school, it doesn’t last long though because nothing is greater than this.

He wouldn’t give up anything for this. He’s _finally_ debuting.

He supposes he hadn’t realised how long his hair was until they properly straightened it out, of course as trainees they aren’t allowed to do a lot with their hair, the fact that he had been allowed to dye it blond itself was a miracle, but he only ever got haircuts from the salons the company would regularly schedule them for.

He’d missed this month's, what with the comeback and everything. 

His hair was a lot nicer to touch after they prepped it, softer, looked a lot nicer too.

Except-

Wenhan is the first one who sees him after he’s had his styling done and he stares for a minute before blurting out “You look like a girl” and it shouldn’t matter, it really shouldn’t because Wenhan is reckless like that, because they say a lot of stupid shit to each other, and they’re brothers at the end of the day and he _knows_ it was just a knee jerk reaction but—it does. 

Jabs at something sharp inside of him and stays there, he feels his heart sink a little.

And he thinks it must show on his face, because then Wenhan is scrambling for words, backtracking and fumbling, saying “I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that, you look good Yibo, better than any of us, look pretty.”

He straightens his face out, smirks his signature gremlin smile, he wants desperately to make this normal, says “yeah I know, Wenhan ge, no need to get your panties in a twist, it's obvious who's the girlier between us.” 

feels relief flood him when Wenhan’s face goes red and he lunges at him, the awkwardness between them dissipated.

And everything is back to normal. There’s a dull ache where it had jabbed though, it doesn’t go away.

The other members don’t say much about it, except the occasional jeer when they joke in the way that boys joke among themselves, it’s not the first time an idol has sported an androgynous look, and it won’t be the last, and his hair’s not even that long, really.

He still avoids looking in the mirror.

It’s honestly bearable, he usually traps all of his hair under a cap or a beanie and it’s fine like that, doesn’t bother him for the rest of the day, he doesn’t even remember that it’s there, that it’s this huge integral part of the image the company’s imposing on him for their debut.

He forgets all about it—until debut comes around.

They blow up almost immediately, the song does overwhelmingly well for a rookie group, and the concept of a Korean-Chinese group is new and exciting and apparently very appealing across both nations, and soon music shows and variety programs are calling them, asking for their presence, and the company does not hold back on its budget, puts everything into promoting them as best as they can.

Soon, they’re going everywhere.

And then it’s out there, all the time, this constant reminder of how he stands out, how much “prettier” he is, lovelier, and fairer, and softer, how much more—feminine. the fans can’t seem to get enough of it, The MCs can never get enough of it, sometimes even outright saying it, and it doesn’t bother him at first, it’s a compliment at the end of the day—it’s just not how he sees himself—but then it keeps happening and the dull ache blossoms into a full-blown throb, makes him tremble with thinly veiled rage and frustration. 

Its pain sharp and unyielding.

He wants to talk about it except he doesn’t know what to say, what to call it, doesn’t even know what he’s feeling. He knows he’s a boy, the most boyish out of all of them perhaps, and he knows his members would happily attest to that, having been a victim to his stupid pranks and petulant behaviour numerous times, and yet that is a narrative the public doesn’t seem ready for.

They call him “white peony”, delicate and soft, something to be protected, everything that he is not. He appreciates the affection, he really does, but sometimes he wonders if it will go away with the hair, go away when he shows them he is more rubble than petal, more concrete than velvet, more violet than white.

Do they love him or do they love what they see?

And he knows he should be grateful, should be grateful for all the attention, the success, the fans that are so vocal in their praise, except he was never in it for this, was he? All he ever wanted was to be on a stage, a platform where he could show himself, prove his worth, perform.

All he ever wanted to do was to get on that stage and never let it go.

He calls himself cool and chic, talks about his passion for dance and the stage, says it again and again and again, in hopes that it is subliminal, in hopes that they can see who he is. What he is, underneath this image.

One day after a particularly gruelling fansign, one in which they’d made him wear a pink sweater and skinny jeans, making him every bit the delicate flower they had intended that he stands in front of the mirror longer than he ever has in his entire life.

Scrutinises every little thing.

Girls are supposed to be soft, he thinks, his head spinning, all smooth curves, plush thighs and round cheeks, cute and lively and delicate. Not him, he’s—he’s not like that, he sucks in his stomach, traces over the abs there, runs his palms over the lean muscle on his arms and see, see? He was all hard muscle and sharp corners, so why?

He sees it then. The realisation creeping slowly onto him like a nightmare. It feels like he’s on the precipice of something shattering. Like he's on a collision course and the ground is so close now.

His fingers reach up, if they’re trembling slightly, he doesn’t notice, presses into the fullness of his cheeks, into his lips, presses into what little fat is there on his stomach. Everywhere he touches it gives, a pillowed softness greeting his fingertips.

They’re right, he thinks dazedly, his head filled with an empty kind of buzz, he looks pretty.

He is pretty. It’s disconcerting, he’s never looked at himself like this, and he hates it.

He’s never paid much attention to how he’s looked, to be honest, he had always focused on dancing and doing the best that he could, in being the best that he could; besides in an industry where everyone is good looking and prettier people surface every day you learn to put the vanity that comes with being attractive behind you.

Here and there sometimes, people would comment on how good looking he is when he was a trainee and he would allow himself to bask in it for a few moments, then let it go, it was never something he had to work for anyway, so it felt wrong somehow to gloat over something that was given to him by pure chance.

But now. Now he felt like it was this part of him that they took and blew up on a screen, magnified it, made it his entire personality as if calling for everyone to look at just how handsome he was. Just a pretty face.

After all these years, he sees…what he supposes other people must see when they look at him. And it’s both a feeling of elation and something darker.

But he wants to be handsome, prides himself on being cool and masculine, not…pretty.

Pretty is for teenagers in frilled skirts and crop tops, for women with long hair falling around their shoulders, for girl group members with long legs and even longer eyelashes. 

Not _him_.

He’s jabbing at the softness of his thighs when he sees Sungjoo enter the hallway, his hands rubbing at his eyes, sleep obvious in the weight of his steps. Yibo yanks his hand back, straightening himself. He stops mid-way, eyes widening.

“Yibo-yah what are you doing?”

He feels like a cornered animal, time stretches for a few minutes until Sung-joo speaks again—

“Do you have a bruise?”

Yibo’s eyes crinkle in confusion.

He supposes it must look like apprehension, because Sungjoo’s posture relaxes and he continues, “If so, don’t worry about it, Yibo, the make-up artists will cover it up, and I bet they won’t even scold you too much, pretty as you are.”

It prickles at the dull throb in his chest and he feels a small burst of anger flare-up.

He wills it down.

Sungjoo laughs good-naturedly and reaches down,

“let me see—”

and Yibo whacks his hand away in horror, it’s not the action in of itself—they’ve all been together for very long and affection is not something they’ve withheld from each other, in an industry as such, with no parents, years of training and homesickness at times so intense it _burns_ , you accept kindness wherever it comes from, and you learn it’s the ones you’re supposed to be competing against that are the kindest—it’s just the prospect of being found out.

After all, there is no bruise, just a press of Yibo’s fingertips and all of his self-doubt, spilled open, so apparent in the faint red of those lines.

Sungjoo hisses in pain, curses at him, says “what is with you fucking teenagers, always so touchy.”

Yibo smiles despite himself. Sungjoo sees it and his eyes narrow,

“next time Yixuan hyung’s not home and you need someone’s hand to hold, you best believe I’ll throw you out of my bed.”

Yibo scoffs, crosses his arms together, “fine then. I’ll just ask Wenhan or Seungyoun, they’re better cuddlers than you anyway, Hyung.”

He knows what reaction he’ll incite before Sung-joo even responds.

Sungjoo’s eyes widen, his mouth opening in mock anger “Now you know that’s not true! Take it back Wang Yibo!”

Most days, he would run, or fight back, or even engage further to rile him up, but today isn’t most days.

Today Yibo allows him to drape himself all over him, something mellow blooms in the space above his ribs. His mind is suspiciously quiet for now, and his chest feels lighter.

Everything else can wait until tomorrow.

For now, it’s just him in the arms of one of the people he is closest to in the entire world, has spent an entire childhood next to.

Sung-joo must suspect that something is wrong as well, given his unusual pliancy, so he drags him back to the couch, threatening that he’ll eat his words tomorrow because he’s gonna cuddle the shit out of him right now, and Yibo goes easily.

It’ll be morning in a few hours anyway, and with the warmth of Sungjoo’s back pressed against him, sleep doesn’t take long in her arrival.

Right before the world fades into darkness however, a hazy thought makes it’s way into his mind, mellow yet persistent.

______________

Promotions go on for a long time, and it’s exhausting, but in a way that makes them smile despite the sweat rolling off of their backs. It’s no surprise that they all lose weight, the constant moving, the practising, the variety, the fansigns and meetings and the even more practising is all weighing down on them, and it shows.

Their schedules are packed to the fullest, and they don’t get a lot of time to sit and eat, so it’s all half-finished meals and sneaked in snacks for the time–being, but no one really cares.

Yibo wasn’t even going to notice it really, except one day, after practice, when they’re all piled up in different corners of the room, sweaty and tired, bones aching and foreheads cool with the still present sweat—Yixuan is right beside him on the couch, Wenhan and Sung-joo further away, near the speakers and Seungyoun’s on top of one of the props, Yibo honestly thinks he should stop having sugar—

Seungyoun suddenly leaps off the props and makes his way to where he was sitting, his expression one of pure evil, and Yibo knows he’s gonna pull some annoying shit like sit on top of him or fart in his face or something and he’s just opening his mouth to yell for Xuan ge to make him go away when Seungyoun falls on top of him, and his voice cuts away to a punched out noise.

He jabs at him, “Get offf, you’re heavier than you look-” 

Seongyoun grins waggling his eyebrows, “But you still love me~”

Yibo pretends to gag, sees Xuan ge’s face break into fondness out of the corner of his eyes and rolls them.

Seongyoun wriggles closer, now attempting to fully meld Yibo and the couch into one and Yibo groans and pushes him off, he falls onto the floor and sits up, glares, then his posture loosens—

“Floor’s better anyway, cooler, at least I won’t die of being smothered by a sofa."

That’s not even a thing.

He blanches as Seungyoun’s sweaty hands reach for his face, fuck—the makeup artists are gonna kill him, what with all the breakouts he already has, (cursed are the teenagers who work in entertainment)—and latch onto him.

They’re grimy and wet and Yibo’s feeling positively murderous. Seungyoun’s already running before his feet hit the ground.

Later when he catches up, and they’re done rambling for the day, too worn out to even care, making their way out of the practice room, Seoungyoun exclaims dramatically “Ahhh Wang Yibo, I almost cut my palm, what with your jawline, you might as well make yourself useful in the kitchens and help with the vegetables.”

Yibo grins, but there’s something lingering in the back of his mind, it’s almost calculated when he asks “You’re just joking right?”

And Seongyoun’s eyebrows rise, his face strangely earnest, “No, Yibo-yah, I genuinely think you’ve lost some weight, Xuan ge will probably fuss over it later.” 

And he goes his way.

Doesn’t realise the storm he’s stirred up in Yibo’s chest, the ache pounding but in a different way. 

He moves away from the practice door, making his way slowly to the mirror.

It’s been a while since he’s really looked at himself, not since…that day. He shakes the memory away.

Touches his jawline and stares, it is sharper, he can feel the bone below his ear more prominently, can see the way his thighs have somehow begun to distance themselves. It feels…nice. He can’t really see it in the mirror, he supposes it must not be all that noticeable, but god can he feel it.

It feels so gratifying—his abs more prominent, his jawline sharper, hell even the veins on his arms are more distinct. The softness is slowly, but surely fading.  
There’s something like a balm that settles in him, cooling and euphoric. This is it.

It feels like he has found something of a loophole, a way to cheat the system. Sure, they could dye his hair as blonde as they liked, dress him up in the skinniest jeans and the softest sweaters, but they couldn’t, and won’t take away how he moulds his body.

And for the first time, since debut, he feels a semblance of control, reassurance flooding his mind, and he knows it’s gonna be okay. It’s all going to go back to the way it was. Normal.


	2. Seungyoun

Weird. Yibo’s being weird. This isn’t the first time Seungyoun’s thought this in the past week and it won’t be the last either.

At first, he thinks it’s the residual homesickness from the Beijing fanmeet, which had been _absolutely_ brutal by the way, he’d never felt so emotional on a stage before and he couldn’t even imagine what it must have felt like for Yibo, what with the way he’d gone down on his knees, understands it must have been terribly hard to see your parents after so long, especially when you left them so early on. 

Knows better than anyone else how the guilt of every unspoken word presses down on you— _if it weren’t for your parents, would you have anything?_

So he gets it when Yibo is quieter for the next week, doesn’t let himself be seen as much, puts everything into practice. But it’s been a while since then, and the strange thing is—  
He keeps exercising, and it’s not like they don’t exercise, they all do, it’s pretty much a job requirement for them but if you ask Seungyoun, one should only workout so much in a day, and Yibo’s going way beyond that threshold right now, leaps beyond, in fact.

It’s almost concerning, but it hasn’t been very long now, and Seungyoun’s gone through his fair share of eccentric phases when he was seventeen, so he lets it pass. 

Except he can’t.

It’s strange, they all share this overtly maternal energy when it comes to Yibo, and when not Yibo, it transfers over to Seungyoun but it’s mostly Yibo. There’s just something about him, he came in way too young into this.

To be fair, he’s still a kid, and although Seungyoun is only just a year older than him, he does believe his experiences, extroversion and general impulsiveness add a lot to the bag.  
So, it doesn’t surprise him when he sees Sungjoo hyung trying to coax Yibo into eating the leftover Bibimbap from yesterday, sees his brows furrow and mouth curve dejectedly when Yibo storms off, his steps cranky and loud.

It’s not fair. He doesn’t know what Yibo’s going through, but he shouldn’t just be using the hyungs to vent his frustrations out on. 

However Yibo’s pretty much his best friend in the entire world, so he’s willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He comes over to the scene, looks at the container of Bibimbap in Sungjoo’s hands and takes it, flashes him a cheeky smile and says, “Ah Hyung-ie, it’s okay, I’ll do it, don’t worry okay, he’s probably not been able to masturbate for a week or something—at which Sungjoo promptly whacks him on the head—

“Ah-okay okay, but you know he’s seventeen right?” 

His eyes widen at the prospect of being hit again-

“okay, sorry, hyung, sorry but seriously, don’t worry, I’ll go talk to him, I’m sure he’s just going through a rough patch, he’ll talk to me, we’re best friends, of course he’ll talk to me.”

Sungjoo seems half convinced but then Seungyoun’s already walking away so he just stands there, biting away at a particularly stubborn nail.

Seungyoun hears him call out a little bit later, “Make sure he eats that.”

He waves the container back as a response…or a promise, he’s not very sure yet, as he makes his way towards their shared room.

He enters it to find Yibo doing crunches, as he has been, literally almost every waking hour since the past week. 

He walks over to sit over on their bed, sees Yibo notice him, and then go back to doing crunches with an even more determined expression.

Seungyoun sits there for a minute, allowing the silence to become uncomfortable—he’d read about this in a book once—it’s some weird asserting dominance tactic, he doesn’t really know if it’ll work, but hey might as well try it out now, huh?

The only sounds in their roofs are the ones coming of Yibo, his breaths harsh and short. It fills and fills until Yibo huffs, sits up with his hands over his knees and says, between breaths, “If you’re here to convince me to eat that, just get out.”

And Seungyoun makes a face of mock surprise, 

“You? Who said this for you?”

Yibo’s mouth curls in confusion, his eyes softening.

“I’m gonna eat it. I know you don’t wanna eat, I saw you give it back to Sungjoo hyung. Why would I try feeding it to you again?”

“Oh.” Yibo deflates a little. 

“Well...okay, just don’t annoy me I’m really not in the mood right now.”

“You could add the hyung sometimes you know, for my sake, if not yours.”

Yibo scoffs, but he can see the tightness in his back leaving, the atmosphere less chilly than it was a second ago.

Seungyoun’s got him now, he thinks—pleased. But he’s not gonna rub that in right now, there’s a method to these things, something Seungyoun has carefully curated over the years. It’s almost an art form, he thinks with pride, to getting Yibo to open up to him.

He lets Yibo do his crunches for some more time, nibbling at the singular piece of egg every few seconds. 

After a few minutes, he calls, acting bored “Ahh Yibo~ how long are you gonna do those crunches for, I’m pretty sure your abs are more defined than the porn I watch.”

Sees Yibo flush bright red, any other time, he would have either screamed or laughed at him, and Seungyoun’s ready for either for that, what he’s not ready for is Yibo suddenly looking incredibly young as he turns his way to ask, “You really think so?”

Traces of a memory lingers at the back of his mind and he wonders if he should try harder to remember it.

But Seungyoun is nothing if not the master of improv but then again, he’s being absolutely honest when he says, “Of course, you’ve been working so hard. Why wouldn’t they be?”

Yibo’s face lights up, just a little, a hint of something, but it’s there. 

Seungyoun wants to dig into that.

“Speaking of which..Yibo-yah why are you doing this? You know you’re fit, right? Like, really fit.”

He sees the tightness return to his shoulders and thinks oh fuck.

Yibo’s hands fiddle with the material of his tank top before he speaks, his voice strained in a way it usually is when he’s trying to hold stronger emotions back at bay.

“Not enough.”

And Seungyoun can’t even begin to decipher what that means or where it even came from, so he just waits for him to continue.

Yibo grits his teeth, his fiddling getting stronger, “Do you think-“ he doesn’t finish. Lets it go with a sharp exhale. 

“Think what?”

“Nothing. Forget it, we have that fan sign in a few months, right? We’ll be flying out to Thailand and we’ll be on a whole lot of variety shows—I just want to look my best for the fans.”

Lets out a smile that is more grimace than it is a smile,

“My side profile is my best feature, after all, should look sharp, right?”

Seungyoun doubts this is the complete and whole truth, but this isn’t a worry uncommon among idols, and he supposes one of them would fall prey to it sooner or later, although he had hoped not.  
Especially hoped not him.

But he thinks he can help.”Yibo-yah..the fans don’t really care about all that, you know, right? They love us because of our charming personalities and overwhelming talent-“

Yibo gives him a withering look.

“Alright, alright. But your jawline is sharp enough, and you’re already so skinny, you don’t even need to diet like the rest of us, the coach exempted you! God how I wish that were me...” 

He catches something like relief colour Yibo’s features.

He gets up from the bed and makes his way to him, looking from above before settling down near him. Bibimbap abandoned.

Swipes his hand across Yibo’s abs, grins when he yelps. 

It’s fine, they’re rock hard, he doesn’t know why Yibo is so worried. He voices this out.

“Do you think they’ll dress me in oversize sweaters and layers again?”

“Hm? I don’t know. Why? It’s not like we have much of a choice anyway, it’s just what the stylists think would go best with our current concept.”

“They never make you guys wear it.”

“That’s because you’re the pretty one.”

Sees Yibo’s jaw clench. It’s almost imperceptible but he can sense the change in the air.

He is hesitant when he asks, “Is that what’s bothering you?”

Yibo looks away but it’s pretty much a confirmation, and Seungyoun smiles, so this was what it was about. He breathes easy, relieved that this wasn’t about Yibo looking at his body and seeing something else. 

That would have been dangerous. 

A body comes to mind, the sun sweltering down in Brazil, his team mate’s girlfriend, bones upon bones wrapped in skin—he banishes the thought as soon as it enters. 

This is _not_ that.

“Ah Yibo-yah, being pretty is not a bad thing. It just means you’ll be able to fit in a wider range of concepts. And what does it even matter, you know who you are, I know who you are, the members know, and the people who matter know. Don’t think about anyone else. Plus, who knows, maybe they’ll pick Sungjoo hyung to be the pretty one next comeback and then all of this will be on him.”

That brings a smile out. It’s nice, Seungyoun thinks.

“If it’s _really_ bothering you, we can ask the stylists to dress you up in more revealing clothes, huh? After all, who would call you feminine with these guns and these abs, huh?”

He jabs at them for emphasis and Yibo growls.

But Yibo seems more at ease now. It’s good, they’re good.

Something is still niggling at him, but he doesn’t pay it much attention. But there _is_ something more to this.

“So…about that bibimbap, you sure you don’t want it?”

It’s that this moment that Yibo’s stomach betrays him, letting out a loud groan and he sees Yibo’s face go pale.

“Come on, Yibo, you need strength to do these exercises, right? To dance, to sing? Plus, one serving of Bibimbap is not gonna make your abs disappear, you’ve worked way too hard for them.”

He can see Yibo’s resolve crumbling and he’s careful not to push too strongly—he knows Yibo will clam up and nothing good will ever come of it. 

For everything that Seungyoun shows the camera, he’s a lot more thoughtful than he lets on.

He gets up and heads towards the bed before coming back, bringing the Bibimbap with him.

For all the cool exterior that Yibo has on, he craves affection like a camel craves water. 

An idea comes to mind and it has Seungyoun smiling from ear to ear. Yibo looks at him suspiciously.

He lifts the spoon and-

“Shoo~ here comes the aeroplane~~”, coos even more at Yibo’s disgusted expression, keeps the spoon just barely out of reach even as Yibo leans forward—until he yanks it forward with his own hand and shoves it in his mouth.

Sungjoo hyung owes him big time.

But watching Yibo eat, with a cross of relief and indulgence, is something of a reward in itself. He only ever wants him to be happy—be safe.

Seungyoun leans back, hands stretched behind him back to support his weight, and watches him finish the whole thing, doesn’t dare to take a single morsel.

“Yummy?”

“Mn.” 

“Think you should tell Sungjoo hyung that.”

Yibo’s features immediately turn guilty, and his shrinks a bit, when he finally looks up to meet Seungyoun’s eyes, he sees no judgement there, just patience.

“Fuck…I was such an ass, hyung, I didn’t mean it-“

“I know you didn’t, brat, Sungjoo hyung knows it too.”

“You know he’ll get it if you talk to him, right? Like, probably even better than me.”

Yibo nods slowly, doesn’t say anything further.

He looks so small right now, and Seungyoun could wait for him to go to Sungjoo hyung and be awkward and stilted at first and then ultimately break open like a cracked rib and find him enveloped in him later, soft and pliant.

Or he could skip past all those steps, and give him the comfort right now, to be honest—Seungyoun needed it too, the constant state of hustle-bustle had been getting to him, his energy dimming at the corners. 

He needed this too.

He scoots forward and turns Yibo around—it’s a little easy, Yibo has always weighed less than them—wraps his arms around him and just rests, sitting up with his back against the bed, soaking up the contact like a sunflower does sun rays. He supposes Yibo is the sun, their little sun. 

Nothing could flourish without him, it’s true, they all have their respective roles, but nothing would be the same without him. 

And Yibo lets him. Settles comfortably against his chest and lets out a breath. 

“You can tell him tomorrow.”

Seungyoun can feel it through his back when he chuckles and it makes him feel all warm inside.

Later Sungjoo, upon entering their room, will come to find them tangled up in each other, dozing comfortably with a finished bowl of Bibimbap beside them. 

He will smile and then call upon Zixuan to help move the kids and Zixuan will do it with no complaints and a soft smile on his face.  


And for just a little while, everything will be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my previous readers, dw I didn't delete the second chapter, I just added it to my first chapter because I felt like it was too short to be an actual chapter by itself. So, now it's a part of the first chapter and the rest will continue as is.
> 
> (also I feel really insecure about this chapter idk :// please bear with me)


	3. Yibo

The thing is—the bibimbap was good, great even. And he didn’t feel guilty about eating it at all.

And he fell asleep that day content and cuddled by his best friend, and it felt something akin to peaceful for the first time in a week.

The problem started when he woke up around midnight to pee, he noticed then that he was in his own bed and Seungyoun hyung in his and he wondered which of the others placed them there.

As he is coming back from the washroom, he sees a bowl of leftovers covered by a plate on their table, it would spoil, he thinks and goes to place it inside the fridge.

Before he could do that, however, he felt a curious need to look at what’s inside. He lifts the plate.

It’s more of the bibimbap that he had earlier—complete with an egg sitting prettily on top—and his stomach groans as if sensing that his earlier meal wasn’t enough.

And Yibo shouldn’t—he really shouldn’t—they have schedules in the morning and he needs to look his best and eating late at night is really not advisable, especially with the way his body is composed, every bit of weight gained immediately shows on his face and he knows that. It just—

Doesn’t really seem to matter right now.

He sits down, and he’s done with it in less than 10 mins. And still, he feels this need to consume more, and more and more-

It’s like all of his hunger that he’d been suppressing this past week had unleashed itself, and with a vengeance.

He needed to eat everything he could find, and it doesn't even make sense, it was something primal and wild—motivated by neither rationale nor reason.

His skin throbs with guilt and yet it’s like his body is not his own, his hands and mouth moving of their own accord, feral and greedy and ravenous.

He’s done with most of what they have in their fridge before his brain catches up to him, and he realises.

Stares blankly at the half-eaten bao bun in his hand, it’s his seventh. He’s never had that many bao buns in a row before.

Ever.

He can’t even bring himself to finish it, throws it in the bin, a bit too forcefully, with a bit too much terror attached to that action.

His stomach aches painfully when he came back to bed, full to the point of bursting. He’s never felt so uncomfortable, even breathing seems laborious right now.

It’s the most revolting feeling Yibo has experienced in a long time.

This feeling of giving in to gluttony and instinct and craving and being so completely out of control.

It would never happen again, he’d make sure of it. He doesn’t even fully understand why he felt the need to do something like that, he’d never done it before, it felt like an out of body experience, as if he was on autopilot.

His stomach is distended, he realises with horror as he looks down upon it, stretched across too much food and fat.

He wants to cry, he thinks dazedly, his entire mind racing.

It takes an agonising hour to fall back asleep, what with his brain whispering; vicious and loud, and his stomach lurching painfully whenever he attempted to shift into a more comfortable position.

The next morning is _brutal_. He wakes up groggy and unfocused, and he feels _heavy_. Seungyoun’s bed is empty next to him and he wonders why he didn’t wake him up.

He doesn’t want to look in the mirror when he makes his way to the bathroom to wash up, he already knows.

The others stare when he arrives at the table, Wenhan even does a double-take, even though Xuan ge tries to be discreet and coughs to break the others out of it.

It is mild and without any poison when Sungjoo asks, “Yibo-yah, did you eat…some of the things in the fridge yesterday?”

And shame courses through Yibo’s veins, white-hot and agonising and he wants to run and hide and never come back.

He gives an abrupt nod and avoids looking at Sungjoo hyung’s eyes.

Sung-joo nods, too wide and with too much enthusiasm, as if trying to placate him, “That’s okay! It’s fine, you must have been hungry, god knows you’ve been working out a lot.”

Yibo nods again, goes towards the living room, no fucking way he’s touching that breakfast, in fact he’s not gonna have anything the entire day, that’ll reverse it, right?

Won’t make the calories stick? Yeah…yeah, he ought to do that.

He brain is filled with static when Xuan ge makes his way to him. Asks him if he’d like some breakfast and Yibo stares at him, sarcastic and biting,

“Haven’t I had enough ge, my face is swollen like a pufferfish and the makeup artists are gonna hate me.”

Xuan ge flinches, he’s never liked cruelty, especially when it’s intended towards oneself. He places his hand on Yibo and Yibo wants to fling it away but he doesn’t.

“It’s just one day, plus you’ve been losing a little weight anyway, this…won’t hurt.”

And honestly, it would have worked except it’s right then that their manager walks through their dorm, and it’s not Ilkyu hyung, it’s someone else from the company and his face visibly sours when he looks a Yibo.

It feels like a slap to the face, tears through Yibo in a way that makes his heart pound, his shame a thousand times intensified.

He had one job. And that is to maintain himself, his body—look pretty for the camera and he’s failed at it. Failed.

His eyes fill with tears and he’s blinking rapidly to make them go away, no one has time for this.

Xuan ge notices everything with dismay, his eyes looking at the manager, then back at Yibo and back at the manager again. Opens his mouth to speak when the manager cuts him off a scoff.

“Whatever. Get in the van, the cameras will be cruel enough.”

And Yibo startles, his head snapping up and his eyes going wide.

It’s like a bomb went off.

He feels the air stiffen, hears Xuan ge inhale sharply, sees the others at the table go deadly quiet before slowly getting up.

He can’t do this, he can’t do this, he _can't_ -

The manager’s already leaving, the others slowly milling after him, giving him sympathetic looks as they go, Sungjoo hyung even stops for a bit, his eyes wide and earnest and pleading, before ultimately leaving.

He and Xuan ge stay there for a bit.

Xuan ge clasps his hand tightly, squeezes twice while looking helplessly, as if unsure of what to say.

There is nothing left to say. He fucked up.

He gets up when the manager calls out again, his voice edging on irritable and forces himself out of the door, Xuan ge close behind him.

The cameras _are_ cruel, relentless in their gaze.

The make-up artists don’t say a lot, but they do make noises of disapproval and each of them settle deep in Yibo’s gut.

The hosts are nice enough, and the audience is more than enthusiastic but he can’t bring himself to watch more than 2 minutes of himself on screen, launches straight into pulling weights the minute they reach home.

The image of his cheeks burns at the back of his mind as he does forces his dumbells up, his head mildly spinning because of the lack of food all the day, he looked positively swollen, but he’s learnt his lesson now. Won’t go two inches near anything that’ll make him lose control like that.

Rationally, he knows he must eat because. Well, because you need food to survive. And for energy and for _dance_. And he couldn’t live without dancing.

He begrudgingly makes his way to the dinner table that night.

The others are still a bit wary around him and he understands why, he’d been stiff and irritable the entire day, hadn’t said a word more than what was required of him, although he had thankfully gotten through the variety successfully, all fake smiles and careful comments.

He doesn’t want it to be like this. He wants them to be comfortable around him, with him. He doesn’t want to worry them any longer, god knows they have a lot on their shoulders and they’re really not that much older than them.

Sungjoo smiles gratefully at him when he takes a seat at the table, hands him a bowl and pushes the pot of steaming malatang towards him.

Xuan ge must have cooked tonight, it smells amazing and Yibo can barely restrain himself from wolfing it down, except the events of yesterday vividly play out in their memory and he stops.

To his relief, Xuan ge’s added in a lot of vegetables and been sparse with his use of meats. Not that Yibo isn’t usually fond of meat, he adores chicken, it’s just…lately, he’d been looking up to see how many calories they carried, and the results had been less than favourable.

He helps himself generously with the broth, careful not to add too much solid food to his bowl, knows the others will be satisfied by the volume of his meal.

But he knows now that calories are distributed unequally, and that even a jug of soup has fewer calories than a plate of fried chicken, and he will use this to his advantage.  
Yibo has always been resourceful.

He goes to sleep with his stomach swimming in broth and water, semblances of hunger still present, but they soothe him, more than anything else.

The others don’t say anything. He knows they’re happy he’s back. Except he’s not really.

It’s their day off tomorrow, and it’s during the early hours of the day, when Yibo is lying on his bed, letting himself lounge for a few extra hours today, that he allows himself to truly think about everything.

Daylight hasn’t broken in yet, the night still fading, and Yibo can hear the faint chirrup of early birds.

It had felt good.

And he knows that’s—not copacetic. Knows that’s something that should be examined further because it shouldn’t feel good, should it? But it had, regardless.

All week he had been light-headed and without energy and his heart sped up almost dangerously quick whenever he got up too fast and he felt like _crap_ physically but then he had also felt his collar bones pop more prominently, his cheeks becoming more sallow, could see his abs more distinctly, they didn’t just fade after meal times and it gave him a strange sense of accomplishment.

And after the atrocity that happened last night, he doesn’t even know what to call it, he had felt so— _disgusting_. 

Heavy and unworthy and...unpure, somehow, like all that food was changing him from the inside.

Honestly, Yibo thinks he’s giving this way too much power and attention to this than it’s worth, after all, it’s just a diet right? And everyone goes on diets.

Especially in their line of work; it’s something more than normal, you have to be thin to look good on camera and for that, you often have to watch what you eat, and so it’s fine.  
It’s fine.

And so he does just that, watches what he eats.

He knows once the new year starts, things are going to be a lot more hectic and they’ll be going on a lot more schedules all over China and Korea and it’s not a complete lie—he does want to look his best for the fans—but more than that, he wants them to view him in a different light, and if all that takes is a few skipped meals here than there, than he’s more than willing to do it.

From here on is a slippery slope and it isn’t soon before it’s all spiralling way too fast out of control.

It’s on the eleventh day since the incident that Yibo realises he might actually be scared of food. And that realisation in itself is scarier than the fact that he lies about food too often nowadays to be considered normal.

And it’s not. It’s not like he doesn’t want to eat, in fact, it’s quite the contrary, he wants to eat, so fucking much it aches, but that’s where it comes in right, he wants to eat, all the time, and he’s so scared that if he starts eating he’ll never stop, and everything that he’s ever worked for will crumble away right in front of him, and the fans will leave and netizens will devour them whole and he’ll ruin whatever chance they ever had of being on stage, just because he couldn’t control his hellish appetite.

He knows logically this is not true, that it’s not even close to being true, that it would take a lot more than just him putting on some weight for their entire world to come crashing down, but he can’t help it. Can’t help but give in to these irrational, absurd thoughts, because they _feel_ right.

And he reasons, blindly, doesn’t know who he’s trying so hard to convince in his very own head, that it’s fine, if these thoughts—this voice—helps him in keeping control, then it’s fine. It’s even good, isn’t it? Never mind that he can’t look at the mirror any more than 2 seconds at a time because he feels he is expanding, outwards and more, and occupying more space than he should be, feels bigger than he ever has, despite what the scale says.

Never mind that he feels so very tired these days, and frustrated and sad and angry and he _hates_ himself for it but he can't stop.

Never mind that some part of him thinks he couldn't stop now even if he tried...

maybe he doesn't even want to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i was gone for so long (almost a month wow), what with starting college and everything, I was unable to take time out for this piece and I don't really know how my schedule will be from now on, so updates may be sporadic in nature, but I'm gonna try my best to do it regularly <3

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I'm genuinely just projecting everything onto poor Yibo here, and of course my work is in no way intended to or aiming at dissecting the actions of the members or the band. This isn't speculation, or theorising, it's just plain old projection and for vent purposes, and my depiction of the characters absolutely do not reflect the opinions and view points of the members themselves, it's just how I have chosen to write them for the purposes of this work.
> 
> (And of course boys can be pretty and feminine and beautiful, and they are !! And there's absolutely nothing wrong with that !! Gender is a social construct bb <3 and gender roles should be obliterated.)
> 
> Yibo's internal thoughts are just very much linked to how _he_ sees himself and his perception of masculinity and his own identity.  
> Between us, we all know idols aren't the most progressive people on the planet and boys are dumb, especially when they're younger. 
> 
> So please know that the characters don't reflect my personal opinions either, it's just fiction, really, nothing to be taken too seriously, just a way for me to cope with my own self destructive habits yikes.


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